


Red Right Hand

by rolloureyes (allTHINGSslash)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Damaged Stiles Stilinski, Family, Hurt Stiles, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 04:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allTHINGSslash/pseuds/rolloureyes
Summary: Stiles has never met his father, growing up with his mother instead, who was known as the Butcher of Baltimore for her love of knives. Growing up under the matriarch of the Polish organised crime, Stiles learned how to survive from a young age, and by the time he was twelve he was adept at picking his way across the world in an attempt to outrun his past. It's slowly catching up to him, however, and the threat of his mother's connections growing more dangerous now that he's stagnant under the eye of his father.Stiles has never wanted to stay in one place for so long, but the family he's carving out for himself in Beacon Hills is making it hard to even think about running again. Especially the fledging relationship that was growing with Derek, who was fighting demons of his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer; I do not own Teen Wolf in any shape or form

 

 

Stiles shifted his duffle bag, adjusting it awkwardly under his armpit in the only outward expression of his nervousness. He had perfected a stoic image over the years, but he was unable to suppress his nerves completely in the face of who was coming to pick him up. He resisted fiddling more, unwilling to draw the attention of the officer who was acting as his handler, who had followed him from the other side of the country. To occupy himself, he watched on at the scenes occurring around him; the family reunited, lovers flinging themselves at each other, there were many tears. Stiles was uncomfortable. The crowd was disturbing his view of his exit routes, doing nothing for the nerves crawling up his throat.

He scanned the faces of the happy people around them, trying to pick out a face like his own. He had never met his father, but deep down Stiles thought he would be able to recognise the face of the man that made up half of his genes.

He spotted Sherriff John Stilinski before he saw Stiles, giving him a few seconds to take the man in. He was dressed casually, losing his uniform for meeting his estranged son. His face was marred, the heaviness of forty years being to weigh down his features slightly. Stiles decided that despite his careful hair cut and coloured contact lenses, that they did look similar. While the summation was only a few seconds, Stiles understood where he got his natural looks from, and could finally decidedly blame his mother for his small stature. Before Stiles decided on how to make his approach the Sheriff, Officer Dennis gripped him above the elbow and lead the way through the crowd.

“Sheriff Stilinski, it’s good to finally meet you.” Apparently, Dennis and the Sheriff had spoken at length before this. Stiles had assumed so; Catherine Dennis was the main cop on his case, but the confirmation didn’t ease Stiles any. It aggravated him more to be left out of the discussions, and Stiles wondered what exactly had been said preceding this meeting.

In favour of listening to idle conversations, Stiles studied the man’s face. It hadn’t lost any of the weariness it had before, but Stiles was shocked at the unbridled enthusiasm he saw in the eyes. Stiles was unused to seeing such an emotion not paired with malicious intent. He grasped his duffle closer, and once again tried to brush off the trepidation growing in his gut. He maintained eye contact with the man he should know as his father, and he titled his head slightly to the side as he wondered what could be seen in his own eyes.

“Hello, Stiles.” Stiles hoped he wasn’t about to be hugged. Luckily, he had underestimated the Sheriff on this occasion, for he just gestured his head towards the baggage claim and ignored Stiles’ silence.

The Sheriff seemed to be taken back once Dennis explained to him that their carry-ons were all they had, but he handled the shock well. Instead, he continued to exchange pleasantries with Dennis as he led them through the crowds and out the sliding doors. Stiles hesitated when they stepped out, tilting his head back to look at the sky he was sure he would never see again. As much as he wanted to, he refused to flutter shut his eyes to embrace the faint breeze and allowed himself to be prompted along as the grip above his elbow tightened. He was lead to a rough looking Jeep, and Stiles walked to back seats. He continued the silence he had maintained since lift off and managed to do so despite the Sherriff going for his carry on. He swung it round his back, refused to flinch as his stitches twanged and John got the message; Stiles wasn’t going to give up the bag that contained his whole life.

The drive to the Sheriff's house could have been uncomfortable if Stiles was bothered by silence, but it had long past the time where Stiles tried to fill the silence with mindless chatter; he had learned from a young age that silence was essential to survival. Instead, Stiles passed the time counting how long it would take to get back to the airport, which turns they took and trying to glean anything from the conversation happening in the front seats.

Before long, they turned off into Beacon Hills; its sign boasting a smaller population than Stiles was used to and wishing them a happy welcome. Stiles stared into the dark woods that surrounded the road into his new town and resisted the urge to press his face into the glass in an attempt to catch a glance of the stars. Stiles had never seen them so clear before, not in this country anyway.

The jeep began to slow down has more houses popped up on the sides of the street, and they soon turned into a drive and up to a house, stopping next to a cruiser. Stiles momentarily thought on why a Sherriff would need a second car, but brushed it aside as the adults began to make movements out of the car. Stiles opened his own door, not waiting for his handler to step out before him. Dennis seemed less concerned about Stiles slipping her now he was in the presence of the two of them with nowhere to run but the forest. She knew Stiles wouldn’t be up to running through the dark trees, but it didn’t stop Stiles from scouting out possible escape routes. They walked as a group to the porch, Dennis no longer acting as a barrier between him and John as they climbed the steps.

The Sheriff welcomed them into his home, flicking lights on as they walked further into the house towards the kitchen. Stiles tried to both take in as much as he could while simultaneously taking in nothing at all. There was nothing to stop how overwhelmed he was with how normal the house looked; it was cosy, a few pictures covered the light covered walls, and the hardwood floors of the foyer leaving way to the plush carpeting of the front room. There was nothing like that in his old place, and he imagined how the cream would be spoiled quickly by a deep shade of red.

John had obviously cleaned up for their arrival; the kitchen spotless, and there was even a bowl of fruit sitting on the circular table they were being led to. Stiles may have laughed at the attempt to make the house more welcoming if he wasn’t tense enough to whiten his muscles over his knuckles.

Stiles didn’t take the seat indicated to him, instead leaning against the counter, eyeing up the window to his right and a measuring the distance between him and the front door. In no time Dennis and the Sheriff had been equipped with coffees and Stiles’ paperwork spread across the surface.

They worked quickly, signing off the necessary papers to legally transfer Stiles out of official police supervision to the Sheriff. Despite the pleasantries, they both wanted this over and done with quickly. Stiles watched as his life was transferred over, and soon the Sheriff had lead Officer Dennis to the front door, accepting her request to leave early in order to get to the airport for her flight back. Stiles had a moment alone as she was walked to her cab, taking with her the last remnant of his old life. From this point on he’d be known as Stiles Stilinski, distant son of a small-town Sherriff, and Stiles had no idea how to feel about that.

Stiles almost missed the entrance of the Sheriff, but tired as he was he had learnt to be alert from a young age.

“Stiles, it’s…” The Sheriff trailed off, obviously as unsure of the situation as Stiles was. What were you supposed to say to a Son you didn’t know you had until recently?

“Come this way, I’ll show you to your room.” Stiles followed John up the stairs, passing an open door holding their shared bathroom and down the upper corridor. Stiles’ room was at the end, far enough from what he assumed was Johns room to disguise normal level noise. Feeling slightly better, he allowed himself to turn his back on the relative stranger, tensing up a little as he was followed into his new bedroom. It was nice, normal, and Stiles’ was immediately draw to the large windows that cornered the room. They offered a clear view to anyone standing below, and Stiles went to draw the curtains, barely taking in the blank walls and empty bookshelf in his haste. He felt marginally better once he had disguised his profile to the world, but the small feeling of satisfaction vanished as soon as the Sheriff opened his mouth again.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so much of it you can decorate yourself. I asked Melissa, she has a son around your age, and she suggested to let you do what you want with it.”

Stiles turned ninety degrees, enough to show that he was listening but not enough to gain a full view of the Sheriff. He hadn’t realised he had gotten so close, and froze when an arm went for his shoulder.

The Sheriff understood his mistake before he made it and withdrew.

“Stiles,” he said, eyes betraying his sadness. “I’m sorry what happened to you, but I hope you can be happy here.”

No one spoke after that, and it was clear that the Sheriff was restraining himself from making another move. Instead, he chose to leave, but not before placing a set of keys on Stiles’ double bed.

“I want you to know that you can come and go as you please. But try to understand that this is the best place for you now.” He left after that, not stopping to look behind as he shut the door after himself.

Stiles sprung into motion, evaluating the room around him with a careful eye. No matter the display of trust that leaving those keys to Stiles made, Stiles’ himself wasn’t at that stage yet. He needed a place to hide his bag. He tried for hidden crevices, forgotten crawl spaces, places of drywall that could be cut away and replaced silently and quickly. He settled on a floorboard that, while wasn’t previously loose, gave way once Stiles had pried it up with a knife he swiped from the kitchen. It was blunter than what he would have liked, and he hoped the Sheriff wouldn’t notice its absence before Stiles could procure one of his own. It would do for now.

He paced the room again, examining everything he could see. By the time he felt somewhat comfortable with his new surroundings, the moon was high and clearly visible from his window. As he went once again to shut the blinds close enough to close the gap at the top, Stiles paused to glance up at it.

For as long as he could remember the moon had been a constant presence in his life. From catching glimpses of it as he raced through the quaint streets of Prague, to the reflection of it in the river Seine he was using as a mirror to clean up the gash on the side of his neck. He could remember himself as a boy, being minded by one of Mother’s men, being told of the legend of Twardowski, who was trapped on the moon after selling his soul to the devil. While it was largely a way to keep Stiles quiet, and acted as a thinly veiled threat of what would happen if you stepped out of line, Stiles was fascinated by it. The moon, to Stiles, was the ultimate escape. 

It made him stop, the sight, but Stiles was uncomfortable with the false sense of hope that it gave him. Stiles had seen much in his short life, and he didn’t expect to live for much longer, but this was a whole new experience for him. The promise of a home, the normalcy of the fucking bowl of fruit and the throw on the bed, was enough to overwhelm him. He could leave, he could run, the money in his duffle enough to take him across two continents and he had enough contacts that could deliver him a new idea within days. His close-shaven head was distinctly enough that it may gain some attention if he were to run, and his supply of contact lenses were enough to last a couple of months yet. Stiles was tired enough to give this a chance, he’d stick around for a while; growing out his hair and letting the buzz die down for a while. His mother wasn’t scheduled to leave prison for another couple of years yet, but the closer it got to the date the more unwilling Stiles was to stay n one place. He had already begun to grow restless, but Stiles didn’t want to lose this chance of a new life quite yet. For once he was living under a legally acquired name, and while Stiles understood better than most that family was meaningless; the offer of a father was almost irresistible.

Stiles would stick around for now, but he would never be far from a new beginning. The thought offered some level of comfort as he removed the contacts hiding his eyes and began to unwrap the bandages around his stomach. They were healing nicely, but still required cleaning and a change of dressings for the next few days, He, for now, was in a safe place, and once he realised that his door locked from within the thought of pain release outweighed the need to feel perfectly alert. The long flight had taken more from him than he thought, and didn’t regret shaking a single pill out of the bottle.

He lay down on the bed, on his back to not disturb the cuts on his sides, and tried to remember the last time he had so much space to himself and the comfort it brought with it. He couldn’t. All of his life he remained in some level of discomfort, from the presence of some questionable individuals to the rough sleeping arrangements he suffered on the run. A large bed was a luxury he hadn’t been able to afford for years, and Stiles allowed himself to sink into the comfort that threatened to swallow him. Tomorrow was another day, today was one that came with a bed.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a vague idea of where I'm going with this, I promise, but I'm just coming off a high of finishing all three of the Foxhole court books in less than two days so my direction is a little unclear for now; if you haven't read them already I urge to now, if you have then please squeal with me about it in the comments. If you have read it, you may see where my inspiration has come from. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and please leave a comment if you have any suggests of how to make it better, or just to say hello.  
> Thank you xx


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